


how far we'd get

by silklace



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M, White House era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 11:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14331318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silklace/pseuds/silklace
Summary: “You – you shoulda come out with us,” Jon says, lightly, but he’s still smiling, reaching behind him to grope for the water bottle he was chugging when Tommy walked in. “Lovett complained the whole night.”





	how far we'd get

**Author's Note:**

> happy sunday, have some porn
> 
> PLEASE, for the love of our collective sanity, keep it secret, keep it safe: do not show to anyone directly or indirectly involved. 
> 
> title is from anne marr's [bullet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=St6T41wYSN4), a vietreau anthem if i ever heard one.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Did not know when we met / How far we'd get / Do you feel the same way?_

Tommy had thought it was the press of his bladder that had woken him, or maybe the sudden glare of the neighbor’s porch light blinking on, white and sharp and shivering through the open blinds to prickle along his eyelids. 

Standing in his kitchen, the linoleum cool under his bare feet, his brain chugs to a new understanding, albeit slowly. He blames clocking 6 hours of sleep in the last three days, including the 90 minutes he managed to scrape before something – or as it turns out, someone - had rattled him out of an exhausted sleep. 

“Hey, Favs.”

“Shit – shit, Tommy,” Favs says, jumping and smiling guiltily. His eyes are little half-moons of happiness, even as he bites his cheek and says mournfully, “I woke you – I told Lovett I wasn’t gonna wake you.”

Jon – looks good. His cheeks are brushed with bright spots from the cold, and his eyes are a little shiny from drinking. He smells like beer and cigarette smoke and the chill snap of snow in DC. He looks – right now – deeply carefree, as if he simply stepped out of the person he was eight hours ago, the person who found Tommy in the bathroom nearest the situation room, fingers trembling and mouth white and thin, hunched over the sink and waiting for the feeling of terror, blind sheer terror, to pass so that he could get back to his desk and finish writing up the report he needed to submit that night. 

Jon had waited, silently, stoically, his own mouth thin and tight and angry, arms crossed so that the fabric of his suit pulled taut along his shoulders, his biceps. When Tommy had said “okay,” finally and dried his face and hands, Jon had put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, briefly and almost as if in passing, and Tommy had wanted - 

They’d left the bathroom together. 

Later, Lovett had stopped by his desk long enough to pull a trembling, breathy laugh from him, which seemed to satisfy whatever badly-hidden worry had him looking at Tommy like he was something fragile and ready to detonate, and then Lovett had left with Jon, who’d just said, “Later, man,” and given him a nod, a little serious, a little sad, but nothing more than that. 

Now, Jon is in Tommy’s kitchen; his mouth is turned up in this sloping, half self-conscious, mostly-knowing grin and one of his boots is untied. His ears are bright pink from the cold. 

Tommy scrapes his nails along his belly, under his t-shirt. “S’okay,” he says, around a yawn he’s too tired to really muster. He slumps against the doorframe. 

“You – you shoulda come out with us,” Jon says, lightly, but he’s still smiling, reaching behind him to grope for the water bottle he was chugging when Tommy walked in. “Lovett complained the whole night.”

Tommy watches him drink, the long line of his throat pale and soft looking in the low light of the kitchen. “Sorry,” he remembers to say, after a long minute. His brain feels like it’s on a lag, perpetually two seconds behind and jumping to keep up. 

Jon’s lips are wet and shiny when he lowers the bottle, crumpling it in one hand and lobbing it towards the recycling bin. It misses, and he leans back along the fridge, elbow slipping against the slick surface before he finds his footing. Tommy remembers that it’s 2 in the morning, and Jon is probably several beers deep, all of which means Tommy has no business thinking about the line of his throat, or the slick, pink well of his bottom lip. 

Jon blinks at him, and his lashes are a long, sooty sweep against the thin, blue-veined skin under his eyes. 

Tommy has so many selves he wishes he could step out of, it gets exhausting trying to keep up with which one he’s in at any moment. He clears his throat, “Where – uh – where is Lovett, anyway?”

Jon waves his hand. “There was a mix-up with the cabs,” he says, as if that explains anything. He’s still smiling at Tommy. “You shoulda come out tonight,” he says again. 

“I know.” Tommy feels the familiar thrum of guilt; a flat shape in the center of his sternum. “Next time.” He said the same thing last week, but Jon is too polite to remind him of that, even as he’s tipping his head back against the fridge again, eyes sliding shut. 

“Let me stay over?”

“’Course,” Tommy says, automatically. His voice has that polite, polished edge to it, and he grits his teeth, sick of himself already. 

“Thanks, man,” Jon says, though he doesn’t move from his slouch against the fridge. 

Tommy can’t stop watching him; the edge of his jaw, the line of his throat as he swallows, the place where his coat collar is crumpled up by his ear. He can’t keep watching him, either. “You gonna fall asleep like that?” 

Jon smiles before he even opens his eyes, but when he does, he’s looking at Tommy. 

He pushes off the fridge. “I’m uh –.” He stops, uncharacteristically stumbling over what he wants to say. He’s looking down at the ground when he finally does say, “I don’t want to sleep on the couch.”

“Sure,” Tommy says, shrugging. Sort of. One shoulder moves, at least. His voice still sounds strange, too loud in the hush of the night-dark kitchen. “I can - uh – I don’t mind. The couch is fine. For me, I mean - ” 

“That’s not –”

“I’m fine with –”

“Not what I meant.”

“Oh.” 

In the silence that follows, Tommy almost, almost says: _well, what do you want, Jon?_ But he doesn’t, he pushes it down, swallows it away, because Jon doesn’t deserve that, not now, not tonight, and even worse, the only thing he could follow it up with would be: _‘cause you can have anything, anything you want._

That would be – that would be a really dumb thing to say. 

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, feeling gritty and tired, and when he opens them, there’s a hand on his hip. Jon is close enough that Tommy can see the soft indent on his bottom lip from where his teeth have been worrying it. 

Jon peers at him, eyes soft and close. “Tommy?” It’s so gentle, it makes the hard stone in his chest turn over and dislodge something tender and aching underneath. 

“Tommy,” Jon says, this time with more certainty. “Let me -”

It’s like Chicago all over again – finding their way towards each other in the middle of the night, with the itch of alcohol or too many hours at the office under their skin. Slotting against each other in bathrooms of over-priced, chain-y bars supposed to look like dives or “authentic” Irish pubs, the sound of their co-workers and shitty music fading away under the frantic search of Jon’s hands. Pressing together in one of their narrow beds in the flophouse, Tommy’s hand over Jon’s mouth as he’d fucked him, soft and slow and sweet, because you could hear the shuffling sigh of bodies turning over in bed, the walls were that thin. 

And then it hadn’t just been in the middle of the night, and Tommy had found himself dragging Jon into the bathroom between conference meetings so he could suck him off, urgent for the taste of him under his tongue, dizzy to feel the way his belly jumped under Tommy’s hand when he was about to come.

And then they’d been campaigning, and privacy had been a luxury – like sleeping in or eating food that didn’t come in a Styrofoam box – and every day was a week, weeks felt like years, and before Tommy knew it, he was lying in bed at night, trying to remember when had been the last time. 

Was it the night Favs came to him, sleepy and moon dappled, and they’d rolled around in bed like teenagers? Or had it been the time he’d cornered Tommy in the hallway in the middle of a house party and blown him, careless and reckless enough to risk being caught, laughing even as he sucked purple marks into the tops of Tommy’s thighs. He kept himself up with it at night - how he could he have missed the last time, could have missed knowing that there was going to be a last time.

Now, though, Jon is looking at him like no time has passed at all. There’s an itch behind Tommy’s teeth, something sharp and electric across his bones.

“I missed you. Tonight,” Jon admits. He lifts his shoulder, looking away in a deprecating gesture. “I missed you,” he says again, “I miss you.”

It’s the beginning to the kind of conversation that happens between people at opposite ends of a room, or at least a dignified, two-foot span separating their bodies, and Tommy realizes that would be – actually unbearable, and before he’s really made a choice to do it, he’s reaching out and touching the front of Jon’s coat, sliding his forefinger in the gap between two buttons and crooking his knuckle, so that it’s hooked, so that if Jon wanted to step away it would be – it would be a statement, a declaration of something that Tommy isn’t sure he could handle hearing, not right now, not tonight, with Jon here in his kitchen, looking at him like it’s the first time again. 

“I’m right here,” Tommy says, voice pitched low. 

Jon doesn’t step back. Instead, he smiles, and it’s tight and flat at the corners. “Sometimes, you’re not though.” 

“I’m here right now.”

“Yeah,” Jon says decisively, “you are,” and he leans in and kisses him, purposeful and serious, but not before Tommy hears the hitch in his breath, familiar and disquieting. Jon is nervous, Tommy thinks, and it suddenly seems more important than anything else to smooth that away, to soften the antsy edges that, Tommy sees now, have been here with them since the moment Jon looked at him, and then couldn’t look at him, as he said, _You should’ve come out with us tonight,_ which had actually meant, _You should’ve been there tonight, you’ve should been there with me._

It’s enough then – has to be enough - for Tommy to take Jon’s face between his palms, to kiss him back slow and smutty, thumb a soft imprint on the hinge of his jaw.

“Yes,” he hears Jon mumble, “yeah,” and Tommy doesn’t want him to stop saying it. He angles his head and drags his mouth along the curve of Jon’s jaw, sucking sloppy kisses along his stubble, dipping his tongue in the curve below his ear, and just like that, everything turns over into high gear. 

“Oh my god,” Jon breathes, “Tommy, shit.” 

“Yeah.” Tommy dips his head and sucks on a spot along the curve of Jon’s throat that always made him shiver. It does now, again. “Good? That feel good?”

“Let’s go to your room,” Jon says. 

“Okay.” Tommy swallows. He shifts forward so that he can touch his forehead to Jon’s, take a steadying breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, a little breathless and already pushing them over the threshold, into the hallway, where they stumble against each other, orbiting into each other’s touch.

“You have – like, a lot of clothes on,” Tommy says, tugging at Jon’s coat. “You should – uh. Consider revising your position on that.”

“Oh? Revising my position, sure,” Favs laughs, “Sure, yeah – I uh, I think I could be convinced of that.” He looks helplessly amused, bright eyed, mouth starting to plump up from kissing. Tommy’s got him backed against the hall wall before he even realizes it, one hand coming up flat next to Jon’s head, the other cupping the back of his skull. 

Any coyness from the kitchen is gone, and Jon opens his mouth up for Tommy, sucks his tongue in and moans around it, artless and sloppy. Tommy feels very awake, the sleepiness from earlier sloughed off by the way Jon is gripping his shoulders, running his hands along the curves of his biceps and forearms like he can’t stop touching, can’t get enough. 

“I’m gonna –,” Tommy says, not even sure what he means to say, but Jon says, “Yeah,” before he can lie and come up with something, starts fumbling at Tommy’s t-shirt like he means to take it off one handed while he tries to unbutton his coat with the other hand. 

“I like this,” Jon says, tugging at the sleeve of Tommy’s t-shirt where it’s bunched up against his bicep. “S’soft, you look. You look really good in it,” he says, cheeks pinking up. 

“Is this where you say, ‘But you’d look better out of it?’”

Jon laughs, bright and ringing, though the blush has spread across his nose, down the front of his throat. Tommy wonders if the skin would feel warm beneath his lips if he were to lean in and find out, then, realizes that he could, right now. Jon would let him. The thought tugs at something low in his belly, hot and sharp. 

Jon’s fingering the hem of his tee, pad of his thumb brushing the waist band of his pajamas, inches from the bulge between Tommy’s legs. It’s unreal, too much. Not enough. 

“It’s just,” he’s saying, skating his fingers along the waistband, dipping to touch skin, so that Tommy’s having trouble focusing on the words, not when his body feels like one electric current turned towards Jon’s fingertips. “I feel like I can’t touch you when you’re in a suit,” Jon says. That gets Tommy’s attention. 

“You can touch me – whenever. Whenever you want. Any time you want.” He’s aiming for casual, but misses, lands somewhere in the land of desperation. Still. 

“Okay.”

“Any time.” 

Jon swallows. He looks like he wants to say more, but then he’s smiling again, dropping his fingers to cup Tommy’s dick instead. “Coming through loud and clear,” he says. 

Tommy kisses him, because that’s a thing he can do tonight, he remembers. Jon can say something dorky and terribly adorable and it can make Tommy feel the same way he does when he sees a puppy – so cute it hurts, actually hurts, makes his chest feel like there’s something missing, hollow and wanting, and it doesn’t get better. But tonight. Tommy can just – kiss him. 

So, he does – sloppy and deep, Jon’s fingers working over his dick in a way that has his hips stuttering forward, desperate, uncoordinated, the fabric of his pajamas catching on the head of his dick and making everything feel more – more real, more textured, just fucking _more_. 

Jon presses his thumbnail into the slit of his dick, blunted and amplified through the cotton, and Tommy’s brain must short circuit, temporarily go off-line, because his kisses turn hazy and even messier, and he realizes he’s moaning, soft and breathy and wanting. “Lemme, let me –,”

Jon pulls away, panting, long enough to struggle out of his coat and scarf and sweater, and the need to feel Jon’s skin, feel him warm and live and reacting to Tommy’s touch, is suddenly urgent, alarm-like in his head. 

“Tommy,” Jon says, laughing and indulgent. He runs his nails along the back of Tommy’s neck, up the dip of his skull. “I got you, I got you.” 

Tommy finally gets Jon’s t-shirt pushed up his chest so he can press his palm to the span of Jon’s ribs, glide his fingers along the faint ridges of his abs, the curve of his pecs. Tommy breathes out through his nose, wants Jon so bad he feels it behind his teeth. 

“Tommy,” Jon says, and then hisses when Tommy leans forward and laps at his nipple, just visible under his shirt from where its shoved up – shoved up across his _tits_ , Tommy thinks, hazy and hot. He tugs at Jon’s nipple with his teeth, flicking his tongue across it until Jon’s shivering, his stomach trembling.

“Good?” He wants to make it good, wants Jon to fall apart in front of him. He leans up and kisses Jon’s chin, tugging with his fingers at the nipple he’d had his mouth on. 

Jon’s rolling his head on the wall behind him, back and forth, like he can’t handle it. It makes Tommy’s blood hot. “Is it good, ba -.” Tommy swallows, slides his mouth down the slope of Jon’s chin, his Adam’s apple. “Wanna make it good for you,” he mumbles. 

“You know it is,” Jon says, not looking at Tommy, hooking his leg around Tommy’s calf to pull their hips flush with each other. Jon’s cock is hard, pressing at the seam of his trousers. 

It’s easy then, with Jon making these breathy little noises of encouragement, to slide his hands lower and palm Jon’s ass, which is flat and a little bony. Tommy grunts and digs his fingers in, pulling and separating the globes of each cheek. Jon’s breath stutters in his throat. 

He pulls away laughing. “I forgot,” he says, “how much you make me wanna get fucked.”

Heat flashes through Tommy, and he knows he’s gone pink from sternum to forehead. “Jesus, Jon.” He’s clutching Jon’s hips hard enough to leave pale impressions in the shape of his fingertips.

He kisses the high point of Jon’s cheekbone, can feel his lashes flutter against his skin. “Do you want that?” He wishes he didn’t sound so breathless. “Tonight,” he says, kissing across his jaw again, “You want me –”

“Yes, yes, you know –”

“To fuck you, put my dick –”

“Tommy, please -”

“Inside of you.”

Jon keens. Tommy kisses him. 

**

In the bedroom, Tommy pushes Jon to sit on the bed and drops to his knees beside it. “Take your pants off.”

Jon, eager, topples a little to the side in his haste to do so. Tommy touches his bare knee. “Are you – we don’t have to do any –” Jon’s cock is – right there. If Tommy learned forward three inches his lips would be touching it. “We could just sleep.”

“I had two beers,” Jon says, voice a little tight. There’s a dull red flush along his sternum. “Three beers,” he hedges. 

“Okay.”

The flush widens impossibly along Jon’s shoulders. “I want it.”

“Okay.” Tommy grips the back of Jon’s knees. “Look at me.” His thumbs are making these soothing movements along Jon’s kneecaps. “You.” Tommy swallows away the rest of the words. He leans in and sucks a kiss onto Jon’s chest, just under the curve of his pec. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

Jon stretches back on his hands, eyes crinkling up a little and smiling. He tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, the long line of his throat exposed like an invitation. 

Tommy takes it. 

He leans forward and sucks the tip of Jon’s cock between his lips. “So fucking pretty,” he moans, sliding his tongue wetly along the shaft. Jon’s cock _is_ pretty – long and pinkheaded and hot in Tommy’s hand. He goes down on it, takes Jon inch by inch – “shit, Tommy, oh shit” -- into his mouth until he’s tonguing the base, drool gathering and starting to drip down his chin, the tang of precum hitting the back of his throat. Jon is touching, carefully, the back of his head, the soft skin at the base of his skull, mumbling something under his breath that Tommy can’t quite make out, though it might be – he’s not – it might be, “baby, baby, oh fuck, my baby.”

Tommy pulls back up, stopping to thrum his tongue along the underside of the head, to suck on that spot until Jon’s whining and pushing his head back, saying, “Tommy, Tommy –,” and “you’re – you’re gonna finish me before we’ve even gotten started.” 

Tommy ducks under Jon’s forearm, sets his teeth against the soft flesh of his thigh. “That was just the warm up,” he says, feeling a little fucked up about the fact – the fucking existence – of Jon’s thighs – warm and lean, the muscles bunching every time Tommy jacks his fist along the length of Jon’s cock. 

“You’re – you’re such a nerd,” Jon says, laughing breathlessly. “Such a weirdo.”

Tommy huffs, gripping Jon behind the knees again. “Seems a little unfair,” he says, lifting up until Jon collapses back on his elbows, “from the guy who used to have a nickname for –,” he blushes, regretting what he’s walked himself into. “Whatever. Scoot back a little?”

“Mmm,” Jon says, using his shoulders to twist backwards. “Not my fault Lil’ T had such a nice ring –,” he grunts as Tommy pushes his knees wide and drops his face to nuzzle behind his ballsack. “Ohh, fuck, fuck you, Tommy,” Jon bites, as Tommy’s tongue finds its way to his hole without further preamble. Jon’s back is arched as he chants towards the ceiling, “Fuck – fuckin – _fuck,_ Tommy, fuck.”

Tommy slicks his tongue along the puckered skin, remembering already how much he likes to do this, getting his face right up between Jon’s legs, feeling the way his hole starts to relax then clench every time he swipes his tongue along it, greedy and hot. Jon’s thighs are propped up and already starting to tremble. Tommy’s going to lick him until he’s _dripping_ , until he’s crying for it. 

He can see Jon’s hands flexing on the comforter out of the corner of his eye. He remembers the first time he did this, kneeling behind Jon in the shower of some hotel in the middle of Ohio – “Tommy, what – what” – and the way he’d shaken so violently, hands slipping on the slick surface of the tile, that Tommy, afraid he would fall, had finally just pushed him out of the shower and onto the floor, hitched his hips back and tongue fucked him until he’d begged – literally begged to come – “please, Tommy, I can’t, I can’t, please let me –,” his whole body one long electric arch as he’d given into it, humping forward into Tommy’s fist even while he was pushing back for his tongue. 

Afterwards, he’d asked Tommy not to go, to just stay in his room, it’s late and they had to be up in four hours anyways, what’s the point of going back to his room now, when there’s a perfectly fine bed there big enough for the both of them, and anyways, in the morning, Jon could – 

Tommy sucks a kiss onto the skin of Jon’s hole, using the edge of his teeth on the delicate rim to draw a shudder from Jon, whose litany has died down into quiet, breathy noises and that’s – Tommy wants to fucking _hear_ him. 

He points his tongue and fucks it into Jon’s hole, driving forward with his whole face, enough that Jon’s hips lift off the mattress. 

“Jesus,” Jon yelps, hand flailing for purchase on the coverlet. “Tommy. Jesus.” He moans, long and low, as Tommy works his tongue in sloppy circles. “You’re – that feels – oh my god, oh my god, Tommy, you know it, you know this, but Tommy, I feel fucking _empty_ around you, like I’m just waiting -,” he chants, then cries out when Tommy takes his thumbs to the edge of Jon’s hole and pulls it open, pink and perfect looking, so he can press his tongue further inside, feel the way the muscles suck and clench for more, “waiting for you to come and fill me up, Tommy, all the time, _fuck._ ”

Jesus Christ. Tommy pistons his tongue into Jon’s hole, groaning when he can get the tip of his tongue inside and feel, _feel_ the way it’s clenching around him, greedy, hungry, wanting more of Tommy, and all Tommy can think of is how much he wants to put his cock in there, wants Jon to be squirming and moaning from the feeling of Tommy’s cock inside of him, rubbing him from the inside out. 

He drags a kiss up Jon’s thigh. “Baby,” he mumbles, feeling hazy with want. Above him, he hears Jon make a choked off sound. God. He rubs his nose along the thin, soft skin in the crease of Jon’s thigh. “Wanna fuck you, now, okay?”

Jon makes a breathy noise of assent as Tommy crawls up to kiss his chin, soft and a little sloppy. 

“Tell me,” Tommy chokes, “Tell me you want it.”

“I do,” Jon says, nodding fervently, running his hands along Tommy’s back and humping his hips up so that the head of Tommy’s dick catches on his hole. “Wanna get fucked by you.” 

Jon’s cheeks have gone past pink and are a dull burgundy; his pupils are so dilated his eyes look black. Tommy’s got his hands planted on the mattress near Jon’s head, and he keeps rolling his neck to nuzzle against Tommy’s wrist, letting his bottom lip drag against the skin there. Tommy can’t help it – his hips stutter forward, the head of his dick just starting to push in, enough that Jon’s hand slaps down to grip his forearm, his whole body going taut as he looks at Tommy. Waits. 

And then – he relaxes into it, his grip softening, back arching, his hips canting up to make room for the press of his dick if Tommy were to inch forward. His mouth is a soft loose shape and he hardly makes a sound as he says Tommy’s name. 

God. How could he – how could he even _think_ to do that, to fuck Jon bare, with just the slick from his saliva. What is wrong with him? Tommy lets out a shaky breath and drops to his elbows. “It’s okay,” he says, touching Jon’s temples with his fingers. “I’m gonna –,”

“ – it’s okay -”

“- it’s really, really not -”

“- I trust you.” 

Tommy can’t say anything to that, so he just kisses Jon, full and hot and smutty, a good kiss, the kind of kiss he deserves when he’s been laid out on his back with his knees pulled up to his chest for the past twenty minutes, letting Tommy do what he wants to him. Christ. 

Tommy rolls away and grabs the lube and condoms from his bedside table. He rolls a condom on in preparation then slicks his fingers liberally and reaches down to palm Jon’s cock, his balls, to slide his fingers further back to circle at his hole. He kisses Jon’s shin. “Ready?”

“You don’t – you really don’t need to ask that,” Jon says, laughing thinly. 

Tommy slides his finger inside of Jon, watching the way his eyes flutter closed and then open again as if he doesn’t want to miss anything. Jon’s ass is tight and so, so blisteringly warm. Tommy feeds a second finger inside of him, presses his thumb to Jon’s tight ball sack. It makes his cock jump, a slick of precum appearing on his cockhead.

Tommy’s mouth waters, looking at that, so he leans down and sucks at the tip of Jon’s cock, working his fingers in a fucking motion without really removing them. 

“Fuck,” Jon says, slamming his head back on the mattress, “ _fuck_.” He swallows convulsively, shoulders twisting, as Tommy inserts a third finger into his ass. “Oh my god,” he says, pulling at Tommy’s shoulders, “do it, just fucking do it now, Tommy, fuckin’ – _fuck_ me.”

Tommy pulls his fingers out, sitting up, and Jon makes a sudden twisting move. “Let me turn over,” he says, not looking at Tommy, and that makes something clench in Tommy’s belly. 

Without really thinking about it, he’s pushing Jon back with a hand on his chest. “No,” he says, shaking his head and swallowing. He hitches Jon’s knees over his forearms, sliding into place. “Like this.”

Jon snorts, eyebrows going up, but then he softens, leans his head back, says softly, “Alright.” 

Don’t ruin this, Tommy thinks suddenly and very, very clearly. 

So he knees closer and fucks into Jon with one swift, abrupt movement that has Jon slapping his palm on the bedspread, choking back a high keening sound before he can seem to help it. 

Tommy’s not sure of the noises he’s making, mostly because he’s focusing on not coming immediately from the sensation of Jon’s ass, hot and incredibly tight around his dick, at the way Jon has his legs wrapped around Tommy’s waist, urging him closer, even though Tommy’s face is shoved into Jon’s sweaty neck, his arms clutching at Jon’s shoulders while he rocks into him, inside, pushing his dick inside of Jon. 

“That’s good,” Jon slurs hotly.

“Yeah?”

“So good, honey,” he says, tips of his ears turning bright red. “Don’t stop, - actually, you can, you can go harder, god please, Tommy, give it to me harder.”

“Okay,” Tommy pants, shifting back on his wrists so he can get more leverage, so he can pull his hips back and shoot them forward, slamming hard into Jon in a way that has Jon’s back arching, his body pulled taut like a live wire. 

They’re both sweating, and the sound of their bodies moving against each other, the slick noises of their kisses and Tommy’s dick fucking in and out of Jon’s hole is – a lot. It’s a lot, and the curl of arousal in Tommy’s belly is tightening every time Jon touches him, pawing at his pecs and grabbing his ass. 

Tommy feels wild with it, fucking into Jon with single minded focus, one hand clutching his waist, the other at the join of Jon’s shoulder so that as much as he’s moving his hips he’s also fucking Jon _onto_ his cock, pounding into him so hard he won’t be surprised if he’s got bruises on his hip bones tomorrow morning. 

The extra space allows Jon to get a fist around his cock, too, and as much as he was pushing back before for Tommy’s tongue, and then his fingers, now he’s looser, pliant, letting Tommy fold his legs up and fuck into him with abandon while he works his hand over his own cock, head tipped back and gasping, _gasping_ for it. 

“God,” Tommy chokes. “You’re so fucking hungry for it, Jon, huh?” He blushes, but barrels on, hardly even knowing what he’s saying. “Waiting for me to stuff my dick into you, again, yeah?”

Jon moans, fisting himself harder, the muscles in his belly starting to jump. He cracks an eye up at Tommy. “Say it,” he pants, “go on.”

Tommy breathes out hard. “Fuck,” he says. He touches the side of Jon’s face, trying to keep his hips moving at the same pace. “Such a good slut, huh, baby? Taking it for me so good, taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

“Shit,” Jon says, turning his face away and coming. “ _Shit._ ” His cock pulses, come spattering his chest, reaching his chin, and Tommy’s hips stutter, once, twice, and then he’s following, feeling like his orgasm is being ripped out of him from the suck and clench of Jon’s ass. 

They lay together, hearts pounding and waiting to catch their breath, for several long moments. Jon is drawing lazy circles on Tommy’s back, kissing the side of Tommy’s face, and Tommy – he can’t, can’t move away. There’s a feeling in the back of his throat like when he wants to cry but that’s – that’s insane. That doesn’t make any sense. 

Finally, Jon laughs lightly. “I gotta – I gotta put my legs down, man.”

Tommy peels off of him, holding the condom so it doesn’t leak, and moving towards the bathroom. He removes it and ties the latex off, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. He always looks flushed and strange after sex. 

He looks instead at the condom in his hand and has the sudden, bizarre urge to bring it back to the bed, untie it, and empty the contents onto Jon’s ass, use his fingers to push the come inside of him, rub it into the edges of his hole, which will be sore and puffy and used looking, to kiss him and play with his ass for hours, until Jon’s mewling and sticky from coming twice more. 

What the fuck is wrong with him. 

He drops the condom into the trash, runs a washcloth under the faucet, and fills a Dixie cup with water. He gulps down two cups of water then fills it again and goes back to the bedroom. 

“Hey,” he says.

Jon blinks up at him, useless after sex, but he reaches for the Dixie cup gratefully. Tommy runs the cloth along his chest and belly, his thighs, then even gently around his pubic hair while Jon drinks the water. 

Tommy feels like he should say something, but he has no idea what to say, and besides – he’s not the speechwriter. 

“Bed,” Jon says, taking the washcloth from Tommy’s hands and tossing it to the floor, using one long arm to push Tommy back against the pillows. “Staying awake is like – not even an option for me, right now.” His voice is a little hoarse. He leaves his arm slung across Tommy’s chest.  
Tommy breathes. Jon is here in his bed right now, looking fucked and sleepy and dopey happy. This is – this is good, this is fine. 

+++

In the morning, Jon is pulling on his pants when Tommy opens his eyes. Watery, winter sunlight is coming through the blinds. He feels cold. “Morning.” He shuffles over to the edge of the bed, pulling a corner of the pillow between his bicep and forearm.

Jon zips and buttons his pants. “Hey,” he says, “any idea where my jacket landed?”

“Hallway?” Tommy clears his throat. “Um, I think I took it off you – yeah. It’s probably in the hallway still.”

“Right,” Jon says, softly. He’s smiling at Tommy, the same smile he always directs at him. It makes something sharp hook into Tommy’s throat. Jon drops down onto the mattress, cards his fingers through Tommy’s hair. The hook twists. 

“Sneaking out before the paps can get a hangover shot?” He scratches his jaw, voice light. 

Jon blinks at him. “We don’t – that’s happened, what? Twice?” He sniffs. “The paparazzi taking photos of us,” he clarifies. “It’s not like they don’t know we’re – I mean,” he laughs. “They know we hang out. Whole world over knows that, frankly.”

Tommy shrugs. “Just sayin’.” He spreads his hands like he’s reading a headline. “Obama bros: actually secret fuck buddies.” He laughs. 

Jon laughs, too. “Fuck buddies, yeah. Crazy stuff.” 

It’s not really funny, but Tommy keeps the bit going. “Talk about a PR nightmare.”

Jon’s laughter dies down. “Total – total nightmare,” he says. He stands and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Well. I’ve gotta track down Lovett and wrangle a speech out of him in the next, ohh…” he checks his watch, wincing, and says brightly, “- six hours!”

Tommy laughs again, throat dry. He needs a glass of water. “Good luck with that!”

“Yeah,” Jon says, nodding. He’s backlit by the morning light; Tommy can’t really see his expression, so he shifts onto his back instead, finds the familiar view of his ceiling. There’s a crack in the corner that spiders along the edge – he’s been meaning to call the landlord about it. It’s only gonna get worse. “Gonna be like herding a fucking cat.”

“Yeah, if the cat were hopped up on twelve diet Cokes.”

“And got screechy every time you tried to encourage it, yelling at you to ‘can the hope and change shtick, there is no such thing as hope and change when the leader of the free world expects this draft copy in the next ninety fucking minutes, Favs,’” Jon finishes, doing a passable imitation of Lovett on a deadline. 

Tommy cracks up, and when he opens his eyes, Jon is smiling at him, softly and a little strangely. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that good of an impression. Tommy looks away. 

“Well, good luck,” Tommy says again. 

“Thanks,” Jon says. He knocks his knuckles on the door frame. “Alright, well. I guess I’ll see you at work.”

“Sounds good,” Tommy says, nodding, acutely aware that Jon is now fully dressed, while the freckles on Tommy’s chest are still visible above the sheet. 

“Okay.” Jon turns. “Tommy -,” he says. He stops. Smiles. Shakes his head as if to dislodge a thought. Smiles again. “See you on Monday, man.”

“See you.” Tommy looks up, but Jon’s already gone. He hears the quiet sound of Jon rustling into his coat, his footsteps in the hallway, and then the door shutting behind him. 

“See you,” Tommy says again, into the quiet of his room. He takes a deep breath, blinking, and then he pushes the covers off and goes to take a shower.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I am head over fucking heels for this fandom; you can find me screaming about it on [tumblr.](http://silkcoeur.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments and feedback welcome and adored! <3


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